Overlord: Welcome the Birth of the King-Chapter 101: The Woman in the Grey Robe, Leinas Appears

Imina's hands tightened around the twin daggers at her waist. Sweat beaded in her palms, and for the first time in a long while, her usually sharp face showed a deep, solemn tension.

The air was heavy.

"You seriously plan to fight four of them alone?" Lyle's calm voice sounded behind her.

"If you're not planning to run, that'd be ideal," Imina replied, her eyelid twitching slightly. If the situation weren't so tense, she might have let fly with a particularly creative insult.

Lyle had given her a sense of danger the first time they met, sure—but come on, he was an alchemist. A really talented one, granted, but still the type who should be buried in test tubes and explosions, not fights.

She wasn't a frontline fighter either. And the guy behind her? A spellcaster. Also not built for melee.

So yeah—this wasn't exactly a dream team for close-quarters combat.

Lyle glanced at her, a bit surprised. Their relationship was more like a verbal contract at best—mercenary at most, loose affiliation at worst. That she hadn't bolted at the first sign of trouble? That was... off-brand for her.

"What are you staring at?" Imina hissed under her breath. "Buff me with whatever combat spells you've got."

She crouched low, left dagger held defensively across her chest, the right angled down near her hip. Her posture was like a coiled predator, moments from pouncing.

Being a half-elf meant that, to both humans and elves, she didn't belong. Even in the Baharuth Empire, which wasn't openly hostile to demi-humans, the stares were always the same—curious at best, contemptuous at worst.

She hated those eyes.

But the man behind her—he had never looked at her that way, not even once.

"Sorry," Lyle said with a helpless shrug, "I don't actually know any buff spells."

Imina's eye twitched.

"Hey, hey—you two done chatting?" one of the intruders called out, voice teasing. The speaker stood at the front of the three invaders, all cloaked and masked. He held a gleaming silver short sword, moonlight flashing along its edge with a chill glint.

"We're not here to start a fight," the short sword man said lightly. "Just a friendly invitation for the alchemist to come with us."

He spread his arms casually.

Their intel said the alchemist only had two possible problems: a Barghest familiar, and the half-elf woman.

"Ugh, seriously," one of the others snorted. This one had a chain coiled around his neck and spoke with mocking disdain. "You half-breeds should really stay out of sight. You know how gross you look? No chest, no ass—looked like a dude for a second."

A vein pulsed in Imina's slender, pale neck, but her expression didn't change. She stayed poised, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"This one's ours," the short sword man said suddenly, turning his head toward a robed figure who had silently been standing at the gate—completely ignored up until now. "So please, kindly leave."

The grey-robed figure didn't respond to the threat. Instead, a clear and pleasant female voice rang out, laced with a hint of amusement:

"Looks like you're having trouble. Need a hand? No charge."

The word "charge" was spoken with a distinct little laugh—light, but unmistakably directed at someone in particular.

A woman?

Imina blinked, irritation flashing across her face.

That comment was clearly aimed at her.

"You bitch!" the chain-wielder barked, recognizing the condescension in her tone.

"You've got a death wish!" the short sword man growled and gestured with a sharp flick. "You two—take care of the half-elf. I'll handle this clown."

As soon as he gave the order—

"Acceleration!"

The short sword wielder blurred, vanishing from where he stood and reappearing in a flash, diving straight toward the robed woman.

But—

She moved faster.

Before he even had a chance to react, her fist slammed into his chest with brutal precision.

CRACK!

The sound of breaking ribs echoed through the courtyard. The man didn't even get a scream out.

In a swift, fluid motion, the robed woman crossed her arms, twisted, and snapped his neck with an audible crunch.

"Big bro!"

"Big bro!"

The other two shouted, their faces frozen in shock.

But before they could react, the woman grabbed the corpse by the collar and hurled it at the chain-wielder. At the same moment, she lunged for the last remaining man.

The chain-wielder struggled to push the body off him—only to look up and see his last comrade already dangling from the woman's grip, lifeless.

"Y-You..."

He trembled, wildly swinging his iron chain toward her.

"Fortress."

The woman casually dropped the body and pulled a sword from it—probably the dead man's own. A faint green glow shimmered along the blade as she raised it lazily.

The incoming chain bounced off harmlessly.

WHIP!

In one smooth movement, she flipped her wrist, hurling the blade. It whistled through the air and embedded itself straight into the chain-wielder's chest.

It had all happened in under thirty seconds.

Calling it a "fight" felt generous—it was a massacre.

Imina stared, cold sweat dripping down her temples.

Strong. That woman fought with a brutal, efficient precision that came only from countless battles—no wasted movement, no hesitation.

"She's still breathing."

The grey-robed woman hoisted the chain-wielder—barely alive—by the collar and walked toward Lyle and Imina, her voice crisp and calm.

"Want to ask him who sent them?"

Imina's eyes narrowed as she studied the slender figure beneath the robe. Her blades lowered slightly.

The man in her grip was the same one who insulted her earlier.

Clearly, this woman was showing goodwill by handing him over.

Imina didn't speak. Instead, she glanced sideways at Lyle.

"No need," Lyle said, shaking his head.

The woman paused. "Is that so?"

CRACK.

With a casual twist, she snapped the man's neck and dropped him unceremoniously.

As she approached, a strong perfume wafted into the air—floral, but cloying. Even the Barghest at Lyle's feet shook its head and sneezed.

Lyle sniffed the air and looked at the woman again. That scent—too strong, too deliberate.

So... she'd finally come to him.

SWOOSH.

The grey hood was pulled back.

A cascade of pale gold hair spilled out, tied loosely at the back. Her skin was porcelain white, lips soft pink, and her deep sapphire eyes gleamed with intelligence. She looked no older than twenty.

Her face was only partially visible—her right eye and cheek hidden behind a veil of golden bangs.

The perfume became stronger with the removal of her cloak, making Imina instinctively wrinkle her nose.

"Apologies for the late-night visit," the young woman said with a respectful dip of her head. "My name is Leinas. There's something I'd like to ask of the alchemist."

She glanced at Imina briefly.

No last name, huh?

Lyle had been expecting her. Now that she was here, he felt no excitement—only a calm sense of inevitability.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Leinas," he said politely. Then turned slightly, "Imina, please take care of the bodies."

"...Huh?" Imina blinked, still on edge. That request came out of nowhere—and was clearly a move to get her out of the way.

"...Fine."

She hesitated a moment, then sheathed her blades, stepped forward, and dragged the chain-wielder's corpse toward the far end of the courtyard.